


GTA V - One Shots.

by MonroseMeadows



Series: Grand Theft Auto - Short stories. [1]
Category: GTA V
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:58:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonroseMeadows/pseuds/MonroseMeadows
Summary: A collection of short stories related to the Grand Theft Auto fandom.





	1. Reminiscent.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. English is not my native tongue, so spelling errors might occur and sentence structure might be off here and there.  
> 2\. Don't be a stranger! Leave a comment or a kudo - that would be highly appreciated.

Pink strokes colored the blue hue present in the night sky. Tiny dots illuminated their surroundings ever so slightly, weak in their attempt, yet victorious as they refused to give up. Yet the silence one would expect to accompany these breath taking surrounds, was nowhere to be found. The notorious state Los Santos was unacquainted with the phenomenon of silence. The murmurous music coming from the surrounding night clubs, bars and rising strip clubs, simmered, joining the predominant sounds of car engines and tires screeching as they scraped the asphalt in an abrupt manner. Troublesome for some, yet familiar to one man. As far as he was concerned, the lively surroundings of Los Santos were a nice change of pace, compared to the almost dead-like city of North Yankton. Especially at the time, residing in an empty house. Silent, muted, almost smothering him slowly, walls closing in on him, a firm grip around his throat. Yet the man never found it within himself to take matter into his own hands or take a left turn. Instead, he kept sliding forward, headlong and disoriented.  
  
A set of fingers curled around a tiny glass, a wrist rotating as to make the liquor it held bounce against the confining walls. He wouldn't know how to deal with the hardship of life, reality even, if it weren't for his daily intake of fine and aged whisky. A set of green eyes found the cigar sitting on the glass table leaf of his backyard furniture. He had told himself repeatedly to give it up, quit smoking all together. But even with the decay of his very health, life would hurl multiple reasons his way, justifying his need for addictive patterns. Being it to either numb what he felt in the past, or what was left to feel yet. The gentle rays the moon shone on the timidly moving water in his pool, caught his eye. Almost remembering him to appreciate the small things, to never forget to see beauty in the littlest of things. As insignificant as they might be, beauty would always be in the eye of the beholder. &nbspIn a way, resembling a formed opinion on a matter. An idea that exists out of unconfirmed bits of information, left for the interpretation to those who ponder upon it. Social hierarchy, the option to see eye to eye with one, or rather to take a man's eye .. The idea that each option is left open for consideration, held beauty. Whether it creating a false image of free will left aside, it was the idea which brought a sense of serenity. Being comfortable in one's skin, standing strong in their shoes, head held high and eyes on the price. Oh, those prices.

'C'mon, you piece of shit. Just start already!'

A shoe's sole connecting with a metal object in sheer force. He recognized that sound all too well. He was bound to memorize the metallic clank of an animate being violently meeting the rim of a car door, or a skull fracture caused by the hood of a helicopter. The occasional iron, with rusty nails laced baseball bats might also be accounted for as well. But this sound was a distinctive contrast to living matter hugging a piece of metal. No, this ought to be material meeting material. A shoe perhaps, a fist maybe? Although the man quickly discarded that option, realizing how foolish one must be as to even attempting to strike metal with mere force and bones guiding him. A broken arm was not worthy of the damage the car would do in return. A smirk crept upon the man's lips as he laid back, eyes shut tightly, simply enjoying the gentle breeze licking his heated skin. He had a damn pool, yet never made use of it. No, that tub of backyard water was preserved for make-believe French yogi's intending to claim an easy hole. Or holes, whichever it might have been, he did not want to know. The sole idea was bad enough as it is, the last thing he desired were details to help him paint a clearer picture.

'Argh, fuck it! Fucking piece of shit! Fuck!'

Yeah, women. Perhaps the story was likewise for both parties. Perhaps, neither gender was supposed to quite understand the opposite one. Maybe the burning desire to get closer to one another, in order to observe, perhaps even decipher their code of conduct. No matter what answer would be held as righteous, neither gender would gain access to that knowledge. Then again, with the constant change in socially accepted behavior, the lowered bar on moral standards and ideals, the absolutely vaporizing ideas of limits and the inability to think rationally for the right reasons and mostly in the wrong situations -- who is to tell what is correct anymore? You give a creature the world, and gratitude is the last thing that would come to its mind. Luck taken for granted, underlining the bad or 'unknown' with a neon marker, now that is a common courtesy. Ah, humanity. Predictable in many ways, yet at the same time, impossible to pinpoint exactly.

'Well, looky here. The big family man enjoying the fruits of his labor. Although it seems like those fruits have dried up, rotten to the damn core. Can't say you don't deserve it. Life's still going easy on you, if you ask me.'

<i>Rotten to the damn core</i> .. He'd be calling pot and kettle on that one. Yet the desire to start a fruitless argument with a deranged meth-addict never seemed to pay off. In the end, it'd be a certain waste of time, breath and rising blood pressure. Fruitless .. Guess they are rotten to the damn core after all. Yet who is to say the night time ghost didn't share a mutual legacy. He carried the same burdens, the same cross -- fought the same demons. He never thought he'd have all of the above in common with him. He'd be damned to admit it, but locking eyes with reality is never a pretty action to take. Reflections are often despised for a reason, hence our instinct tells humanity to go out of its way in their attempts to justify their flaws. Right the wrongs, even if they don't deserve a satin veil to cover its corners.

'Fuck you and your fucking smart mouth, T. I ain't up for your bullshit at the moment, so get off of my property and go live your wretched life, as far away from me as possible. The cards have been dealt, but the game is not played in harmony.'

The corners of the 45-year old Trevor Phillip's mouth curled into a devious grin. A duo of brown eyes glistening ever so lightly underneath the, by artificial, motion-detecting backyard lighting. He had always been a master at making appearances when least desired or expected. His actions were labelled as so unexpected, that one would expect the unexpected by default. Hence, undoing the element of surprise, by making the lack of surprise, a surprise on its turn. Even if you knew what to expect from the Sandy Shores inhabitant, he'd still manage to take you by surprise. Quite contradicting, but fascinating all at once. The run-down junk seated himself on the yard stools, supporting the weight of his slender, yet muscular arms on his upper legs, all the while watching the gentle swaying of the pool. Not a single word was spoken for a reasonable amount of time, yet the substitute to 'silence' as one know it, was nipped in the butt when the slightly older male refilled his glass. As he breathed out a mixture of both a grunt and a sigh, he re-positioned his aging body on the small stool.

'You know .. With knowledge, comes responsibility. With acceptance, comes a void.'

He turned to look at Trevor, unable to tell what emotion was displayed by the current facial expression he was greeted with. Trevor was known for his violent, and most likely drug-related mood swings, yet for the time being, he seemed calm. Almost .. serene. As the man cast his gaze on the tiled floor, -- or was it bricked? He was unable to tell, not that it held any significance to either of them anyway -- he ran a hand over the jean fabric which his jacket was made out of. A rough sensation tickled the sensitive nerves in his fingertips, yet he discarded it almost without giving it a second thought. He had noticed the near empty bottle on the table, and the caked rings on the glass, indicating multiple refills in only a short period of time. That only meant one thing, a butt hurt and emotionally challenged Michael Townley. Or De Santa, whatever the prick liked to call himself these days. Trevor couldn't care less, as long as the snake wore the name 'Michael', he found peace within his very soul.

'I started with nothing. We both did. But I built something, I managed to create something that reflected my image and idea of a possible future ahead. And upon my irrational desire to preserve this from ever being taken away from me, I opened the door to the future that I was supposed to walk towards. The cards were dealt, T. They were dealt, but by the wrong hand. Mistakes were made, and now the deck has been shuffled. With this result. My cards were sinister, but I accepted them. Took me a while to grit through my bitterness, but I accepted it.'

He looked up, locking his green eyes with Trevor's darker ones.

'That don't mean that I ain't bitter about it, still. Cuz I am. I'll always be glaring at the past I created. I'll always know that my ghosts of the past, could've been my mirrors of the present if I hadn't fucked up. What is it called when you hate yourself for hating yourself because you know you have to fuck up to make it in the end?'

Trevor shook his head, emitting a low grunt, growl maybe. His eyes met the tiled floor again, or bricked, still didn't mean shit to him, to be honest.

'<i>Ahdonno</i> .. Being a realist? Or a self-loathing scumbag who knows he has fucked up one time too many? Why do you even care? You're still living the life the FIB ensured for you. You hadn't had to do shit to reach the top you are currently standing on. Or rolling down from, depends on how you're looking at it. I mean .. Sure, ya scared your family away, you betrayed your best friends, took advantage of a colleague, joined those slimy government worshipping slices of meat and ended up a sad, lonely pile of treacherous garbage. But .. In the end, you're still the same person, with the same ideas, the same moral standards, the same smug face, and the same amount of money on your bank account. So spare me the pitiable stories, Mikey. We all go through hell, not everyone makes it back, so .. be glad that you lived to tell the tale.'

Trevor then shook his head as his bushy, scarred brows dropped down, and a shadow colored his brow line, hovering over his sympathetic eyes. 'Then again, please don't ever tell that story. I know they say repetition is key, but .. Let's burry this tale. Perhaps we could bury it in your grave at Yankton. Or should I say .. **'Brad's grave.'**

A glare. Michael knew he had no right, nor was he in the right position to be looking down upon Trevor, nor feel personally attacked by his witty, yet razor sharp remarks. He deserved the knives, but they didn't belong in his back. He turned to look at Trevor, who was at his turn, still eyeing the tiled floor. (Honestly, who gives a fuck, it's a fuckin' floor) He noticed the 'cut here' tattoo on the man's neck, and the smirk on Michael's face revealed that he now understood the meaning and placement of said tattoo. Now more than ever.

'Never stab people in the back. Either kill them, or play their game till one runs out of fumes, ain't that right, T?'

Both men smiled.

'You got that right, Sugar tits. You got that right.' 


	2. Perished

_"It's a girl, T.. A healthy, beautiful baby girl.. I can't believe it, man. I'm a father.. I'm actually a father now .."_

Leather boots heavily dragged across the sand ridden dirt road leading up to a run down, and insect infested trailer. Small marks left behind in the separated sand particles, indicating the presence and departure of a sentient being, aware of its current journey.

_"I can't right now, man. Tracey has her first school play and Amanda has been nagging me for days on end to come with her. The teacher gave her this little pink dress to wear during rehearsals, and I swear to God, she hasn't wanted to take it off ever since.. Kids, right?"_

Bruised and cut up fingers were placed against the wooden material of the entrance door. Tiresome eyes took in the inner decoration of the exposed interior. Shuffling through the heaps of clutter accumulated on the carpeted floor, mindlessly kicking it aside, out of the direct path to the small, dirt covered fridge in the back.

_"I'm sorry that I stood you up, but something .. important came in between. Not that spending some quality time with my best friend ain't important or anything. It's just .. Family stuff, you know how it is. I'll make up for it eventually, I promise."_

Minor contents held within the closely spaced walls of the small fridge. Glass bottles dominated the biggest part of said confines, easily overshadowing the little amounts of food. If there even were that many to count on one hand. A firm grip around one of the small glass necks, vanishing light as the little door was kicked shut in a swift motion. Moist lips, chapped and dry for the most part, now gently soaked with alcoholic contents.

_"Oh, hey Trevor. Haven't heard from you in a while, for a short while I thought you might have succeeded in actually getting yourself killed. But I guess this proves otherwise. What have you been up to? - Ah, I see. I hear ya, things have been pretty hectic around here. Jimmy and Tracey always end up beating each other to bloody pulp, and Amanda seems to have run out of prescription pain killers. So fun times all around, huh. Hey, we should grab some drinks together some time. I could really use some time away from the house .. Let me know when you're up for it. Talk to you later, buddy."_

A slender body seated on the edge of a stained mattress. With the soothing effects of the liquid numbing the remainders of humanity and all of its pet peeves, the man let go of control over his heavy limbs - to feel his vertebrae crash against a soft set of blankets. Emptying his cluttered mind, he slowly let his eyelids fall shut. Holding himself still, only the sounds of his breathing mechanism and off road tires breaking the line between asphalt and sandy strokes within a matter of minutes.

_"T? T, have you died **this**  time? I've been trying to get a hold of you, but my calls don't seem to come through at all. None of 'em.. Not even my texts. I'm not sure whether to be concerned here, so could you throw me a bone here and simply confirm that you indeed are still alive? If you don't, I am compelled to seek your sorry ass and demand an apology. Also .. That offer to get shitfaced together is still open. ..Turns out that amazingly grateful wife of mine has been screwing her tennis coach. In my Goddamn bed on top of that.. Ugh. Anyway .. Please, hit me back up, T. Talk to you soon."_

Abandoned needles and a collection of credit cards were thrown around on the small night stand located in the corner. Cracking his eyes open, he found said objects - Almost like a predator locating its prey in the wild. Natural selection - Some are meant to improve while others find solace in the act of self-destruction. Hasty arm movements and now a pair of brown eyes inspected the leather bandage tied around his bicep.

_"Man, what the fuck is going on? I'm not amused by a long shot! Are you so doped out of your mind that you have completely forgotten about your social circle? Not that it was that big to begin with, but .. still. I haven't heard from you in weeks! Goddamn weeks.. The fuck is up with you?! Dude, seriously, call me!"_

One last sip of alcohol. One last hit. He laid his decaying body down on the bed upon feeling the chemicals take their effect. His heartbeat got caught in a battle between fastening and slowing down. A warm sensation spread throughout his limbs, almost in an assuring way. Sinking deeper, he breathed out one last time.

_"We'll reunite soon again, Mikey. Don't you worry about that one bit, friend. Weeds don't perish, huh. How about you take care of your little hardship-related family and then we'll get back together. Not looking forward to spending time with a mentally and emotionally drained middle aged man. Sober up a little, I'll hit you up. Later."_


End file.
